miscellaneous poems.
83
Joy we may give, tho' we have no spell
To bring back the past ye have lov'd so well:
Stay! And hope brightened the wintry sky,
With so rosy a hue—that—could I deny?
To bring back the past ye have lov'd so well:
Stay! And hope brightened the wintry sky,
With so rosy a hue—that—could I deny?
VOICE OF THE THUNDER-CLOUD.
From my home, 'mid storms I spring,—
Child of the summer day,—
O'er the wither'd buds I wildly fling
Dew, from the brush of my sable wing;
The birds, when I flee, leap forth and sing,
As I rove o'er my trackless way.
Child of the summer day,—
O'er the wither'd buds I wildly fling
Dew, from the brush of my sable wing;
The birds, when I flee, leap forth and sing,
As I rove o'er my trackless way.
Afar, o'er the sea I glide;
The billows I unchain,
Till they lash the struggling vessel's side;
A wreck on the wave I see her ride!
Then, groaning, plunge in the foaming tide,
Whilst I lighten with joy the main.
The billows I unchain,
Till they lash the struggling vessel's side;
A wreck on the wave I see her ride!
Then, groaning, plunge in the foaming tide,
Whilst I lighten with joy the main.
